


5 days with a psycho

by AngstyLlamaCrossings



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Adult Dipper Pines, Angst, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Human Bill Cipher, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 15:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21376333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstyLlamaCrossings/pseuds/AngstyLlamaCrossings
Summary: Things like this don’t happen to people like him.He’s too... too normal for shit like this. These things usually happened to people like Mabel, who’s secretly pretty. Or people like Pacifica, who’s actually rich. Or even Soos, who would gladly follow a string of candy into an awaiting van.This stuff doesn’t happen to people like Dipper.And then again, it does.
Relationships: Bill Cipher/Dipper Pines
Comments: 10
Kudos: 237





	5 days with a psycho

Day 1:

It’s spring, nearing the end of it.

The hot Indian summer makes its presence known in small but obvious ways, if the continuous windows of on-sale tank tops and flip flops was anything to go by. He wipes a string of sweat from his brow, from the smarmy gust of wind in his face or the interview he’s walking towards, he doesn't know. Maybe it's a bit of both.

“Hey kid.” A stranger’s voice echoes from the dark alleyway, soft but incredibly shrill.

He frowns but keeps on walking, slightly offended at being mistaken for a child in broad daylight. Sure he’s short for his age but that's no reason to belittle someone, especially since the guy didn't seem much taller than him and he's definitely wayy older. The stranger keeps up at a steady pace and Dipper's slight surprise turns into marked annoyance. He doesn't recognise the face, not with the ridiculous top hat that obscured most of it.

“What do you want?” He stops at the end of the road and turns around, balling his hands into a fist. If it's a fight this guy wants, then it's a fight he'll have. Instead, the man smirks, incredibly lopsided yet strangely familiar.

“Wanna go for a drive?

It's so cliché that he almost laughs, a scene straight out from a kidnapping movie. But he's not a kid anymore and this isn't Kansas City. 

"We can go anywhere you like.” The man smirks even wider, revealing parallel rows of sharpened teeth. 

_There's something wrong with him. _

“Wha— No I don't—“

_Run!_

There’s barely time to finish the thought when something metallic silver sails through the air and he’s out like a light.

—

Day 2:

He wakes up to a searing pain in his left eye.

Blinking carefully, he surveys the damage. His left eye is sealed shut, speckles of dried blood clumped onto a rumpled blue button up. Flicking a tongue to the cut corner of his upper lip, he winces. The entire left side of his face was undeniably swollen, not to mention the bulbous bruise the size of a walnut on his temple. A few feet away, he sees the weapon that must have done it, a gleaming silver putter laid on the ground, the kind they used in mini golf.

_Weird. _With his one good eye, he takes a look around.

It’s an old shack, full of knick- knacks from a bygone era. It could have been a tourist trap at some point, one of those forgettable shops at the side of the road no one would ever look twice at, not willingly anyway. There’s a giant statue of a Yeti in the corner, with the words Sascrotch inscribed at the bottom, whatever the hell that was. It’s hulking form and strangely human-esque appearance should scare him but it doesn't.

Nothing scares him more than the pair of mismatched eyes currently staring at him. 

“Good morning sunshine!" A yellow nail file, scraping sounds of metal against chalk, the dainty way he holds out his clawed fingers to the sunlight, sharp contrast to the violence that only Dipper knows is there, bubbling beneath the surface.

"How’s your day been?" Pointed teeth, a lopsided smile, a memory unlocked "Apart from getting beaten up and abducted of course.”

He groans in response and passes out.

—

Day 3:

The next time he wakes, half his vision is pure black and he panics.

“Woah, woah, slow down there kid! I just fixed it up for ya.” A shrill voice echoes from above him. He’s slumped against a thigh, lean and solid beneath his cheek. He jerks away when he realises who it belongs to, only to struggle in vain at the binds around his hands and legs. Razor sharp fingernails clutch at his jaw firmly, willing him to stay still and leaving no room for discussion.

“There, see? Now you look just like me.” His abductor points to the triangular eyepatch on his right, mirroring the one Dipper has on his left.

“We’re a match.”

The room begins to spin, the Sascrotch in the corner coming alive to loop round and round in circles.

“Who are you?” _Why are you doing this? What have I ever done to you?_

A grin, triangular canines and ashen skin. “Name’s Bill Cipher, but you can call me your new lord and master for all of eternity!”

There’s no easy way to respond to that, so he doesn't. Though the name does sound incredibly catchy, like a Christmas jingle that plays on repeat in every mall during the holidays. One that you can never quite get out of your head completely.

He turns over and pukes before passing out again.

—

Day 4:

He wakes up completely alone for the first time in two days.

At least he hopes it’s two days. Missing persons reports are usually filed within 72 hours and he doesn't want to cause his family any unnecessary worry. It’s just him and Bill in the little shanty, seems like the psycho was working alone. Which is a relief, to be honest. The first attack had been a fluke, it had caught him by surprise and he's had to pay dearly for it. Now that he knows what’s coming however, he could take the other man down one-on-one, no problemo.

Grunkle Stan had taught them how to fight or '_self-defend yourself_' and unsurprisingly, Mabel had taken to it much better than he had. Still, he could hold his own as well as she could when the going gets tough. He just needs to conserve his strength, find an opportunity to escape if he can. Hooking his bound hands around a table leg, he drags it up and down, using the sharp edge to sever the hemp rope digging into his wrist. It's not nearly sharp enough but there’s nothing else within reach so this will have to do for now.

A click echoes at the door and he freezes.

The knob turns and he goes slack, regulating his breathing to seem as if he was still sleeping.

“Rise and shine kid." Bill enters, arms laden with white plastic bags, "It’s the dawn of a new reign, one that belongs to just me and you!”

For a doped up junkie, his abductor speaks incredibly well. He must have OCD too, if the immaculate fashion was anything to go by. Crisp yellow dress shirt paired with a sleek black tie, eerily similar to his own dark blue and black office wear. In a different setting, they could’ve easily been coworkers, maybe even friends. Maybe a bit of both.

Bill lays the bags of groceries on the table, fishing out a triangular plastic container and crouching down so they're at eye level, flaming blue sliding up against earthy chestnut. Clawed fingers unwraps the foil with delicate precision, pulling the edges out gently from its polysynthetic prison and holding it out towards him, the bizarre juxtaposition making everything seem even more fitting. 

It drives him insane.

“I’m not hungry and I sure as hell won’t eat anything you give me!” He spat out. Just then, a loud growling noise reverberates from his stomach, forgoing the conviction in his words.

Bill laughs, falling backwards on his bum. “You crack me up Pine Tree!”

He blushes and looks away. Bill wipes an imaginary tear from his eye “Aw man, I haven’t laughed so hard since… “

“Well, you should know.” The lopsided smile is back again, accompanied by a sea of flaming blue. Yellow brick walls streaks through his mind, a large cross hammered into the ceiling, fields of gold, a secret spot where he’ll never be alone. A promise, a deal made, bound by blood and oath. _What was it? What did it mean? Who is he? And why does this feel so..._

His brain hurts so he stops thinking.

“Open wide.”

Bill gestures to his lips but directs the first bite of the egg sandwich into his own mouth, chewing with satisfaction at the confusion that must be clear on Dipper’s face.

“What are you—“ Dry chapped lips scrape against his own, followed by an intrusive tongue wrapped around a single pellet of food like a ribbon. He scrambles backwards, rearing his head in disgust but the ropes keep him in place. The tongue ventures forth, making its way through the tender flesh at the back of his throat. He chokes and is forced to swallow, saliva dripping from his chin.

He spits in Bill’s face. He’s not the bravest of men, wouldn't even crack the top one hundred. But everyone has a breaking point and finally, he’s reached his.

Bill smiles at him, languid and sly, wiping the spot on his cheek with the back of his palm where Dipper’s spitball had landed. Slowly, almost lovingly, he caresses the foamy liquid with the tip of tongue before sucking obscenely at the edge of his razor sharp teeth. He means to resist, to look away, to do anything than stare blankly at the erotic display that was unfolding before him. 

Bill feeds him the rest of the sandwich in the same way, not once letting up despite his screams of protest and words of abuse. When he bites on the tongue and doesn't let go, Bill smooths a silver knife against his throat.

Dipper relaxes and swallows, obedient at last.

—

Day 5:

“I need to pee.”

He’s near to bursting after holding it in for nearly three days, maybe even more. In the mean time however, it seemed Bill had found a solution using two buckets and a whole lot of embarrassment at his expense.

“I need to pee.” He repeats, louder this time. He expects Bill to be annoyed, throw a fit and refuse but the man only grins, a seemingly permanent fixture on his angular face. Pocketing the knife he’d been playing with, Bill stands with his hands on his hips.

“Go ahead, Pine Tree. Here, let me give you a hand.” He’s manhandled into a standing position, dragging along the linoleum floors like a sack of flour. He stumbles and trips on a loose floorboard, knocking his two front teeth against the crook of Bill’s jagged elbow but the man only holds him closer, arms tight around his waist, squeezing down on his already too-full bladder.

It’s the sweetest torture.

“Do you mind?” He hisses, turning his back to face the urinal when they reach the tight bathroom. Bill lets go, wriggling his fingers in the air but doesn't look away. He sighs in defeat but otherwise ignores the unwelcome presence, he’ll pick his battles some other time. Shucking his bound hands on the fly of his pants, he tries and fails to get the zipper down. He tries again, and again and again, till the metal clip snags on a stray pube and he cries out in pain and frustration.

Lean arms circles around his waist, hot wet breath making quiet shushing noises in his ears as clawed fingers picked apart the zip with gentle ease.

“Said I’ll give you a hand didn't I?”

It’s so shameful that tears squeeze out from the corner of his eyes, even as his body relaxes and gives into the touch, the steady trickle of pee the only audible sound in the room.

“A hand. Get it?” Bill murmurs in his ear, snickering softly.

He slumps back against the lean body, unable to hold himself upright at the sudden release of pressure. When the fingers clasped around his dick don’t leave even after he’s done, he doesn't question it. When they stroke up and down in a lazy validation of irrefutable ownership, he doesn't question it either. When they reduce him to a state of gasping wet moans, begging and writhing to escape from this hellscape or to stay forever trapped in those arms, he doesn't question it. Wanting both and yet choosing neither.

A swift sigh of pleasure and he gives in, truly and completely. 

Above him Bill grunts, heavy strangled breaths bouncing off the tiled walls. Lean thighs dry hump on the sacred crevice between Dipper’s back-pockets, searching for his own release and finding it on a barren shoulder blade, biting down as Dipper cried out in triangle-shaped teeth marks. A signature to seal the deal.

“You’re a psychopath.” Dipper grits out in the post-apocalyptic glow of their climax.

“Sure I am. What’s your point?” Bill huffs out a laugh, dry and humourless.“Not like you’re not either.”

The accusation hits him harder than it should, for reasons beyond his understanding. Didn't he know by now, not to trust the words of a mad man? No matter how charismatic said mad man might be?

“Every Jekyll needs a Hyde,_ Pine Tree_.”

They make their way back to the main living room and Dipper plops down at his usual spot. This time however, Bill doesn't sit across from him like he usually does. Instead, long arms snake their way around his waist as if they never left and he doesn't resist. It’s awful how nice they fit together and it’s nice how he doesn't feel awful about it.

It’s familiar in a way, like an old television show. You may forget its existence for awhile but when it airs, you watch it anyway. That’s the rule, that’s always been the deal. Pointed fingers card through his hair, massaging the tender scalp and smoothing away the split ends. 

Bill hums a lullaby, soft and slow. He closes his eyes and dreams.

—

At midnight, he wakes with startling clarity.

The last vestige of the harvest moon reflects into his good eye, illuminating a straight path to the cold sharp glint of Bill’s Swiss army knife peeking out from the breast pocket of his bright yellow shirt. His eyes flicker over the slumbering form. He knows what must be done.

Slowly, and oh so carefully, he hoists himself up. For once in his life, dexterity is his sworn ally and he pries the the silver blade using his teeth, dropping them to his hands and sawing his way desperately towards freedom. _Please don't wake up please don't wake up, please- _

The first thing he does when his hands are free is to rip the eyepatch from his left socket, wincing as the cool air scraped against the tender flesh. The binds around his legs comes off easily and then he’s tiptoeing towards the door in bated breath when a voice echoes from behind him.

“You can’t leave.”

A sea of blue flame, a promise unfulfilled. There’s no tears on Bill’s face but he looks wrong, all scrunched up and wound tight, his usual lopsided grin replaced by a cowed grimace.

“We had a deal.”

He wants to scream but his voice comes out as a mere whisper in the deafening darkness.

“What deal? You’re fucking insane!” 

Bill shook his head, golden tresses framing smooth black skin.

“You can’t leave.”

He says it like Dipper had a choice. As if free will weren’t just words on a piece of paper, as if history could not prove itself in an endless time loop of winner and loser, of conquest by deceit.

“You won’t leave. Not again.”

He’s bolting out the door before he can hear anymore, trudging through muddy grounds and clumps of dried grass. He doesn't stop until he hears traffic and sprints towards it like a fish towards water.

A honk splits through the air. Dipper stares into twin bulbs of headlights, black slits against a starry night sky.

He waves and throws himself at the open road until he’s sobbing into the cracks, until a warm blanket wraps around his shoulder, until the sound of police sirens in the distance lulls him into the end of a nightmare and the beginning of a new dream.

* * *

  
In the end, the whole ordeal was forgotten.

He’d moved out years ago from his parent’s place and the only people who even realised he was missing were Mabel and his landlord. He didn't get the job to the interview that he didn't go to but perhaps it was for the best, after his harrowing experience with death, a dead-end office job was the least of his worries.

In another week, he forgets it ever happened. Just a dream within a dream within a nightmare.

Only Mabel seems to worry, having insisted on staying with him until the end of term break. It’s valuable time she’s making for him, time better spent working on her thesis paper for her Communications degree. He’s glad she’s there though, selfish as it is. At least there’s someone to wake him up when he screams.

“Bro, you can’t go on like this" Mabel sweeps the sweat stained hair from his forehead, revealing the age old constellation that had once led many to salvation as she laid next to him on the twin sized bed, "You know I say this with love.”

He grapples with a response, a defence of any kind but the words fail him. They always seem to, especially when he needs them the most.

“Don't you remember what he looked like? A small detail? _Something?_” Mabel tucks a stray strand of hair behind her pierced ear and sighs.

He does, but he doesn't say anything, squeezing his eyes shut to will the memory away. The police had asked too, so had the neighbours, so had his parents, so had Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford. _'Pretty lies are pretty. No one likes ugly things, no one except monsters like you and me!' _Bill’s voice floats in his mind, high and shrill like a warning bell. At the cusp of a truth, so close and yet so far.

He shakes it away and Mabel interprets that as a ‘no’. Two ships passing in the night, missing each other as one docked the shore while the other headed for an iceberg. 

“Well… get some sleep then, my flight leaves at ten.” She settles down beside him. They’re both too big to fit in the small space so there’s little wriggle room between them. The tightness is comforting nonetheless and Mabel reaches out a hand to place it over his own. She yawns, muttering “I’ve changed all the locks in this place so make sure it does't happen again, kay?”

He nods though her eyes have already closed, what good were locks against monsters of the mind? He doesn't have the heart to tell her that though.

"Love you bro-bro."

He smiles and closes his eyes, staring up at the imaginary ceiling fan, going round and round in circles. Blue shadows dance in the darkness, lit up by the blood orange lights of the streets outside. There's something leftover in his mind, a shrill bell ringing in the distance. Something she had said, the missing puzzle piece to a long forgotten mystery.

"Mabel?"

He tries again, "Mabel, you asleep yet?"

"Mhmm..."

"You said _again_," He insists. “What did you mean by that? Again as in... You mean, it happened before?”

“Yea, don't you remember? When we were in eighth grade.” Mabel pops an eye open, staring at his blurry figure before mumbling as if in a trance-like state. “Grunkle Stan was really worried, I was too, so was Waddles."

"You were gone for the whole summer, Dipper."

Her soft snoring filled the room once more but all he could hear was high-pitched laughter in the distance, set to loop on a cassette tape. He remembers a cross nailed to the ceiling, light pouring in from above. A tree-house shaped like a pyramid, a pinky promise in the sunset, a necklace of teeth. Branding iron glowing like molten lava upon tan skin, a beacon calling him home through the swampy fog.

Flashes of a life he never lived begin to invade the blank spaces of his mind, assaulting the lids behind his eyes with black and white images of suppressed memories. 

—

_"I hate it here. This place sucks."_

Dipper watches as a mini version of himself kick at stones by the water’s edge. One of the stray pebbles hits a long black serpent hiding in the nearby bushes and it hisses, rearing its scaly black head. Yellow eyes sharpen into slits as a forked tongue darts forward to taste the blood on his ankle, two punctured holes where there was once a smooth expanse of skin.

He cries out in pain, falling against the gravel. 

The snake laughs, slithering away and out of sight. Leaving him alone to blubber out hot sweaty tears and pull at his hair, anything to distract from the fear of the wild, left to survive on his own with no trace of civilisation to mark his grave.

_“Are you crying? Why are you crying?” _

A pointed face peers down at him from above the creek. He’s startled into silence, watching the other boy with guilt and shame. They couldn't be more than a few years apart but the blonde looked significantly worse for wear, long wild hair sticking out at odd angles like a misshapen porcupine, rows of rotten teeth interrupted by large blank gaps. He only had the one good eye but his clothes were contrastingly clean and crisp, dark tan skin wrapped around a yellow button-up and black suspenders.

_“It hurts.” _He answers simply, sniffling now that the initial shock had worn off.

_“But pain is hilarious!" _The boy grabs a rock from the ground, it’s pointed edge digging into the soft flesh of his inner palm and thirteen-year-old Dipper gasps. Marbled beads of ruby red oozed out from the open wound, thick as paint against a canvas of innocent madness.

_"See, watch.” _

Dipper couldn't tear his eyes away if he tried. There’s something almost beautiful about it. The way the skin splits open at the seams, a backdrop of green blue veins intersecting like frayed edges of a kaleidoscope. The boy grins, happy to be showered with the attention. He bends down to lick the side of his palm where the blood had trickled down to his wrist, single blue eye not once easing its hold on Dipper’s rounded features. 

Like a kid caught with his hands in the cookie jar, he blushes and looks away from the terrible scene. His ankle is still bleeding, clean socks stained with a dirty pink. 

_“I can make it go away, if you want.”_

That has his attention and he looks up, curious as to why the other boy hadn't offered to help him in the first place. 

_“You have to give me something in return, something of greater or equal value, something we’ll both want." _Mismatched eyes twinkle at him, pinned with earnest longing. In the sheer brilliance of the mid-day sun, the strange boy was contrastingly cold and aloof, not a single drop of sweat on his thin forehead despite the sweltering summer hear. It was as if he'd been cut from diamonds, sharped edges sparkling to form a geometric marvel, waiting for the day it would be polished, waiting for someone who could revive its brilliance, waiting for a thirteen year-old Dipper Pines who didn't know any better.

_"It's only fair.”_

If only he had known that the snake was not poisonous, if only he had known that Mabel and Grunkle Stan were only five minutes away, if only he had picked himself up and forged through the pain. Then maybe, maybe he wouldn't have said it. Maybe none of this would’ve happened.

_“Deal?”_

_“Deal.”_

The boy slides off the embankment, crouching down to place soft lips against his feet. He winces at the touch and moans as the slight suckling morphs into a deep suction, wide pink tongue lapping up the coagulated blood, allowing the skin to stitch itself back together again.

They stay like that for a long time. Til the sun begins to fade, skipping away in the horizon as dragonflies skated lazily over the water’s edge, reeled in by unsuspecting mouths just below the surface.

_“T—Thanks.” _

He says finally, turning to the sprawling figure of the boy beside him, skating fingers through his hair, humming a low lullaby deep in his throat. 

_“I—I’ve gotta go back.” _He tries again_, “Ma— My sister will be worried. So will… my uh, grand-uncle.”_

The gentle hold on his neck tightens and he winces.

_“You can’t leave.” _

Something in the shrill voice chills him to the bone and he lays back down obediently, allowing the hand to resume its steady track down his nape, tucking the curls behind the smooth curvature of his ears.

_“We made a deal, remember? C’mon.”_

The stranger stands and he follows, entranced by the fiery blue of the midnight moon, shining like a beacon as they wind deeper and deeper into the forest. In the morbid darkness, shadows pounce and stutter at his heart but a warm hand on his own keeps them from straying too far. He was safe, he didn't know why, not yet, but he knew without a doubt that the warm body next to him would keep him safe, would walk to the ends of the world with him and chase away all his nightmares. Even if it left him a soft husk of empty dreams, he would be safe, nothing could harm them.

They reach a cabin, half-buried in the ground, only its tilted roof was visible from the brick yellow surface. A giant ‘x’ marks the trap-door, Bill reminds him again and again, should he get lost looking for it. He laughs as Dipper slips down the ladder and earns himself another scraped knee.

_“It’s hilarious how dumb you are, Pine Tree.” _He had said, licking at the sweat and tears on the side of Dipper's face_._

He stays in their secret hideout for the rest of the summer, barely fifteen minutes away from where dozens of policemen scoured the grounds for the next five days, before finally giving up and filing a missing persons report. Just fifteen minutes away from Mabel’s cries of despair and Grunkle Stan’s self-admonishment, just fifteen minutes away from home, away from everything that was safe, everything that made sense in his tiny little world.

Being with Bill is... Weird. To say the least. He’s completely random and terribly crass, which made their adventures all the more unpredictable. He also seems to like pain, or at least doesn't mind it as much as Dipper does, no matter how intentional the pain is (Dipper finds this out the day he accidentally hammers one of his friend's sharp fingers to the floor). Bill teaches him how to work on the corn fields, how to handle a knife and carve his own furniture, how to melt steel and fashion his own tools, including but not limited to; a mailbox, a whittled figure of a screaming head and a sleek black branding iron with the symbol of a single pine tree on it.

In their spare time, they make up a story, one with an on-running narrative of zombies and leprechauns, of demons and destruction, of time travel and the end of the world. He laughs, more than he’s ever had in years, more than he’ll ever remember for the rest of his life.

On the last day of summer, Bill lets him go.

_“You can’t leave even if you wanted to.” _Bill giggles, fingering the necklace of deer teeth around his neck. He doesn't want to go back, not without Bill, but the other boy ushers him towards the Mystery Shack nonetheless. They kiss under the feathery caresses of the pines leaves watching silently from up above, without judgement, without shame.

_“Next time, you won’t leave at all.”_

Grooming. They had called it. 

A psychopath; a pedophile, a narcissistic abuser with encephalitic tendencies, a pervert and the scum of society. _It wasn’t like that, _he tries to tell them. But they won't listen, can't understand what it's like and no one can separate fact from fiction, not even him. After years of therapy and self-conditioning, he believes it too. 

_I was a helpless victim. It wasn't my fault, there was nothing I could've done. _Pointing fingers like a pastime, anything to prove his own innocence, convinced of his own absolution. 

It was just another dream within a dream within a nightmare. 

_You won’t ever leave. Will you?_

—

The next morning he sends Mabel off at the airport with a tearful goodbye before making the long drive back to his empty apartment.

Bill is waiting for him on the stone steps, as Dipper knew he would be. 

Every movement he makes feels like he's drowning in a pool of honey, until the razor sharp claws circle around his waist and he leans back into the touch as easy as breathing.

“Mighty fine weather we have, huh kid?” Comes the shrill voice, lopsided grin hiding behind rows of sharpened teeth.

Casting his eyes at the crowded streets before him, it was clear that summer had come and gone without his knowledge. The first sign of death and decay falling from the charred branches down onto the boulevard, riveting waves of orange and red lapping at a fiery blue sea. A scene from a painting edged between the lines of fantasy and reality, a poor man's imitation of an intermediated dimension. 

He hums but doesn't respond.

“Wanna go for a drive? We can go anywhere you like.”

Tickling breath in his ear, the promise of forever in his eyes. A field of gold, a forked river split by the cross nailed into the ceiling. A deal completed, redrafted, recontracted, a never ending cycle of reuse and renewal.

“_Don’t ever leave again._” He whispers back. The growl is low in his throat, so soft and tender that it belied all the sweet danger sunken beneath its depths.

Bill shivers and holds him tighter, carding fingers through chestnut brown hair, swearing love and death in the same breath.

“I won’t.”

Triangle scars left on his nape, the feathery needles of a leaf, stitching the bright yellow sun and the deep blue sky. He shifts closer, nestling at the crook of Bill’s neck and loosens the black tie. It comes off easily and he moves on to pop the buttons of the collar one by one, til he finds what he's looking for. Right there, just below the clavicle where he knows it would be.

The burnt tattoo of a single pine tree. Forged by fire and iron.

_Who's the real psycho?_ He wonders. _The monster, or the man who lives inside it? _

_Maybe it's a bit of both._

“Deal?”

A flash of sharp teeth and Dipper bares his own fangs, eyes glinting a dark amber glow.

“Deal.”

* * *

_The End_


End file.
